How can borders be so simple and so strange? 

I am driving and I pass over an invisible line and everything changes: the pavement, the signs, the language on the signs, miles into kilometers, food and status. I am reminded as I return to the classroom that a passport does not beget belonging.

In any case, driving across a border hits different than flying over one. I highly recommend it. Planes imply some sort of official transition. Driving, however, is moment to moment, like a commute but then not like a commute at all.

2 hours and 90 kilometers before the invisible lane, I approached a checkpoint. I lowered my window with passport in hand. “¿A dónde se dirige?” And while I know these words, I expected others. In the second that my mind had to make the leap, Spanish teacher, speak for your supper, he questioned my understanding until I spouted Tewk-sone, proud.

After kilometers of highway dotted with the occasional Pemex (gas station), I was relieved to see a bathroom as I pulled up. In the USA, bathrooms are almost always included in gas stations a common courtesy. I zoom out a little, and remember that plumbing, cleaning, toilet paper, and maintenance makes costs more than can be filed under the title “currency.” I relaxed when my fingers found the 5 peso coin in my wallet, and it fell into the coin slot with a satisfying clink as I beelined to the toilet. My bladder has become less tolerant: in my 20s I didn’t drink water, and I never had to pee. How desert times have changed. At the border between Nogales, Mexico, and Nogales, Arizona (two separate towns with a country border running between), I inched along for 30 minutes. It felt exactly like a toll (why do I always end up in the longest line?). I scouted the shortest line but did not see it.

I approached the border agent with confidence. Even though I was smuggling an errant onion, literally one white onion that I forgot to cook, I knew that this would be a painless process because of my appearance and passport. I recognize that it is not this way for everyone. I have heard stories. She wanted to see in the back seat so, after my faulty button didn’t roll the window down, she just pulled the door open herself which I found alarming even though I would have only been liable for an onion. She pawed at my granola and then handed back my passport. I didn’t even get a stamp. That is one satisfying perk of air travel: the customs stamp! 

Even without the stamp, my adventure filled me with hope. It was everything I hoped when I booked it: for solitude, quiet, clean spaces, writing, and immersion in a culture that makes me both forget and remember myself. It’s vital not to belong. This is what I have come to appreciate about being foreign, though the awkwardness can be uncomfortable. Ultimately, I like the uncertainty more than staying home. At least, as a change of pace from the routine of teaching which can feel numbingly certain but equally uncomfortable.

Without further adieu, I share the last chapter of my visit: 

After three nights in Hermosillo (Sonora’s capital) , I drove an hour and a half south to San Carlos Guaymas. San Carlos Guaymas is an ocean town. What alarmed me when I first saw the ocean, which burst from miles of desert like a surprise party, I was alarmed by how much I didn’t like the sky. Not a cloud to be seen. I didn’t like the monotony of the single shade of strained blue-green of sky, like it was taking something from me. The ocean, however, was still a welcome sight. My nails were painted a fresh blue, not that different from the sky. And I settled into an ocean visit, which is simply different than staying in a city in Mexico roaming the sidewalks until I found a park or shop that beckoned me. 

My AirBnB host met me by my designated parking spot. I was paying more than double for this place than I paid in Hermosillo, because this is a tourist attraction (I don’t call it a trap, because it is stunning). Hermosillo is not a tourist attraction, but it is home to many. San Carlos seemed like home to few. The host asked: “Why is your Spanish so good?” whereas the folks in Hermosillo were confused by my foreign accent. I was still digesting the fact as I unpacked my groceries and took in the new space. I missed the calm perfection of the apartment in Hermosillo because this place was over-decorated. The location was stunning, overlooking a small boat port, so I imagined waking up, sipping coffee, and sitting by the water. The unit was called Rincón Frida (Frida’s Corner) and reproductions of her famous pieces covered the walls. There were even photos of her and Diego Rivera on the nightstand as if they were family friends of mine. I love AirBnB. It made this entire adventure possible. 

But then I felt it: the wave of sadness. I think it was loneliness, or the transition to a new destination, or knowing I could only share the ocean with myself. Or was it knowing that this place was my last stop before returning to the classroom? Mid-afternoon (3 o’clock, namely) is a sort of soul-scouring hour for me on unstructured days, even (or especially) on vacation. 

But then, I threw myself into running to forget. I rejoiced over sidewalks and stretches of road reliable for running. I still did a fair bit of hopping off of one sidewalk and up onto another, but this was ocean-breezy compared to the Olympic Obstacle Course of the sidewalks of Hermosillo. 

I noticed that San Carlos was filled with happy retired people, or young families on Spring Break from Arizona (I’m assuming). The folks who waited for the buses seemed to be locals who catered to the business brought in by those happy retired people. The happiest retired people from the USA appear to live in Mexico. Now, this is the part of me that is going to sound judgmental, and maybe it simply is, but: where was Mexico, for these retired folks, before they retired? Was it a part of their consciousness? Are Mexico’s struggles their concerns? Now, I don’t have answers, so maybe I don’t in fact sound as judgey as I thought I would. But I do wonder. I just wonder. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong really, but I wonder: what does a retirement country mean to an expat? And what does their country of origin mean to them in retirement? I think the Peace Corps volunteer in me is bound to ask these questions. Or maybe it’s the Natalie in me because questions have always been my partner in solitude. 

Also, I ask because I want to be an ex-pat soon.

I couldn’t shake the face of the woman who painted my nails in Hermosillo. She pretended I was only hands for the first 20 minutes. Then, she did not ask me where I was from, or really anything about me except for two things: do you have a lot of skin around your cuticles because of your work? (No, soy maestra) And then: ¿Cuál es tu idioma? (What is your language?) 

I found the question surprising. Not: what is your first language, but “what is your language?” I know this happens to people in my country every. single. day. Also, it made me feel like a complete imposter. I earn my living as a Spanish Teacher and here she was telling me that Spanish was not mine. Which I know, but it still hurts to have someone blatantly remind me. For example: the other night at a friend’s party, I did not mention that I speak Spanish (I think someone was literally taking a poll of Spanish-speakers) and if anyone wants to know why I didn’t raise my hand, it is exactly because of moments like in the nail salon.

A regular manicure was not on the menu (you know, not gel nails, just regular polish?) The woman kept repeating gelish as a question, but gelish is one brand of many gel polish brands. It doesn’t mean gel manicure where I came from, but it did in Hermosillo. At any rate, I did not want gel. Well, the manager charged me more for regular nail polish than gel nails. Without a base coat or top coat, so it wasn’t truly a manicure. It was simply a coat of polish. While this confused me, and I wonder if I was being taken advantage of, I did not push back. It was a difference of a dollar (20 pesos). Still, I don’t like the feeling of being the fool. 

On my last full day in Mexico, I woke up in San Guaymas and looked at the water. I made myself coffee and I took myself to the ocean. Once I finally secured parking, after saying to a security guard that I was nervous to drive my car into the oatmeal (note: sand: arena, oatmeal: avena), I stepped, finally, onto the sand. I realized I didn’t have a beach chair, or a towel. I had myself, my bluetooth speaker, floppy beach hat, copious sunscreen, my journal and a book. So I did what I do best and I walked. Oh, I also had sunglasses, thank goodness. The ocean was a perfect blue, seemingly untouched by trash and the perils that befall oceans. It was warm, 75 with a breeze but intensely direct sunlight. As I passed estadounidenses with their dogs, I was tempted to pick-up shells. But I didn’t do it. I just wanted to be in the moment. 

I wondered about the ocean as I wandered. I also wondered how close I was to my daily step goal. But in the middle of my wondering, I stopped to breathe. I made sure to stop and breathe. Mexican, ocean air should be bottled and sold. I was talking to my sister on the phone when suddenly I saw two dolphin fins cut through the ocean surface. “Hang up and take a picture!” She said. And at first, I didn’t take any. I just stared out at the show before me. Every time I was visited by a hummingbird in Hermosillo, it fluttered away the second I reached for my phone. So I had learned just to let nature be nature. But then there were so many, their dark gray bodies beneath the surface like gifts waiting to be revealed. 

I went to a lecture (in the before times) where the lecturer described the Christian Bible as a text for migration. Among many things, she said that, for many, they did not cross the border rather the border crossed them. I found this especially salient because I live in Northern Mexico, also known as Southern Arizona by a matter of 174 years. 

If you are curious more about this history (as am I) there is more here https://history.state.gov/milestones/1830-1860/gadsden-purchase

As I visit Mexico, I remember that I am a guest in Tucson as well. I don’t belong in Tucson, and I don’t belong in Mexico. I am just lucky to be greeted in both places. I am just lucky to see the dolphins. I am just lucky.